


Pantsless? In MY Chili's?

by Yusariis



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Comedy, Drunk Jack, Gen, Kinda, for the discord, lil bit, mention of Nisha/Moxxi, rhack - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 20:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19775431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yusariis/pseuds/Yusariis
Summary: It's more likely than you think.- - - - -On the night shift as a janitor, Rhys finds himself babysitting a pantless, drunk Jack.





	Pantsless? In MY Chili's?

“Do you know who I _am_?”

Rhys doesn’t want to.

He never wanted this. He’s here because he needs a job through college while his parents pay tuition but not his rent. He’s here to ‘build character.’ He’s _here_ because he didn’t get any job call-backs in his field, but Chili’s _did_ call him. He’s here at midnight because some asshat eavesdropped on his phone call to Vaughn after the interview while Rhys waited for his Lyft (because it’s bad taste to drive a Lexus to a low-level job interview). 

And he’s a janitor instead of a waiter because his nosy manager _sucks_.

And he’s here, right now, at midnight, two nights before his midterms, answering the door for a crazy, pantsless drunk person asking Rhys why he’s not being served his food (because they’re closed) and if he knows who this crazy pantsless drunk person is.

“No, I don’t,” Rhys answers because he has a personal policy of not knowing crazy, pantsless drunk people. “Sir, we close at 11.”

“I know what time we close,” the crazy person sneers, “and I _also_ know I told you to get me a seat.”

“We’re _closed_ ,” Rhys insists.

“Well, you’re not closed for me,” the wasted maniac in front of him rambles, fishing in his wallet (which he drops with an “ah, shit”) for what Rhys thinks is gonna be a bribe until the drunkard suddenly smacks the closed glass door with a small piece of paper.

It is not a bribe that Rhys sees pressed against the glass, under the palm keeping the man upright. It is a business card.

_Jack Clarke_

_President of Brinker International_

_Maggianos, On The Border, Chili’s_

Fifteen minutes later, Jack Clarke, boss to end all bosses, orders the Texas dry-rub ribs and demands the honey-chipotle sauce on top. He also orders a slice of paradise pie, loaded mashed potatoes mixed into a cup of chili, the Caribbean seared shrimp salad ‘with none of the salad crap’ and a party platter of roasted street corn.

Oh - and a pitcher of water. Because he’s ‘trying to sober up.'

"You know that all our chefs are gone, right? And that I’m a janitor?" Rhys asks as neutral as he can manage. “I can maybe get you our appetizers,” he offers as an alternative, because everything else needs to be made by-hand and it’s midnight and all the chefs are gone and he's not even a waiter and he is _not_ getting paid enough for this and also _doesn't know how to cook_. 

“That’s right,” Jack says, after a bit of thought, “you can," and adds Texas cheese fries to his order.

It takes a while. Rhys needs to turn the lights back on, get the stove going, and get the ingredients together; which involves unwrapping everything he needs, defrosting things, and checking over whatever recipes are on hand because he was not trained to cook. Jack complains about it, loudly, from his seat the entire time when he’s not complaining about the plastic booth seating sticking to his bare, hairy legs that Rhys is trying to ignore. 

Rhys gets the feeling Jack won’t mind the paradise pie and cheese fries coming out together, a feeling confirmed when Jack spears a fry with his fork, cuts a bite off the pie, and sticks both of them in his mouth at once. There’s a hum, but Jack pauses suddenly. He takes another fry, chews a bit more thoughtfully.

“The fries are supposed to have ranch sauce on them,” says the drunken dictator.

It’s one in the morning and Rhys has been in this building for ten hours already so it’s understandable that he takes a second to process this statement. He then takes ten more to swallow his reaction to the negging. And another ten to think of something inoffensive to say in the face of a piss-drunk, pantsless president.

“I’m a janitor,” Rhys repeats, patting himself on the back for his restraint. Jack doesn’t even look up. He’s slumped onto his one elbow while his opposite hand forklifts more food into his mouth. “I didn’t find any ranch, I didn’t _make_ any ranch, it--”

“Doesn’t change the facts,” Jack says around a bite of solid jalapeno slices. Rhys focuses on the wall to ignore the bits of food that came out when he spoke. “Texture’s gross.” With that, he picks up the paradise pie slice, ignores the ice cream he’s smeared on his hand as a result, and bites into it. “And the pie’s cold.”

Rhys’ thinks about how his business degree couldn't come fast enough.

“It’s supposed to be cold.” Rhys measures his words as carefully as the sauce in the kitchen. “That’s why the fudge is hot--”

“Not this cold.” Jack cuts him off _again_ and shuts down Rhys’ retort with, “Where’re my ribs?”

Commendably, Rhys _does not_ say that the only ribs Jack was getting tonight were the ones already in his chest, and Rhys could put those on a plate if Jack wanted ribs so goddamn bad. He doesn’t say this for two reasons: one, he needs this job. And two, Jack has hands thick enough to wrap all the way around Rhys’ neck if Rhys even tried to lunge for him.

Two appetizers, an entree and a party platter served later, Jack tells Rhys to “Pop a squat, kiddo.”

Rhys isn’t sure he heard that right, and decides to pretend he heard nothing at all.

“Enjoy your meal.” That’s what waiters say, right? “I’ll be back to check on--”

“I _said_ ,” Jack says around his rib, “ _sit_.”

So, Rhys sits. Rhys watches Jack pull the meat off the bone in his hand, surrounded on all sides by a wall of food. 

“This’s better,” Jack says, wagging the rib in the air.

“Thank you, sir,” is all Rhys can think to say.

“Worked those stoves before?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s against policy,” Jack’s leaning on both elbows now, dropping the empty rib to grab another. “Could make you a cook.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Rhys blurts. Realizing what he said, he adds, “I mean, I’m fine where I am. Sir.” 

“I can call. Vouch for you.”

“Don't do that.”

Jack shrugs and buries his teeth into the meat again. “If you say so.”

Rhys shifts uncomfortably and dares to ask, “Are you sure you don’t want a to-go bag?”

“Do I need to smack you with my business card?” Jack asks, snapping a thick, focused stare at Rhys who jumps with a “no.”

“‘S’what I thought.” And he resumes eating. 

Rhys grinds his teeth in lieu of biting his tongue - if his irritation gets that far, he’s in trouble. _But at least I wouldn’t be feeding some plastered narcisists ego,_ Rhys thinks, bitterly, _calm down, you own fucking_ **_Chili’s._ **

The quiet keeps on for a few minutes, until Rhys decides he needs something to keep him awake. “What…” he starts, but trails off.

Jack looks up at him, having switched to the potato-chili slush-cup he’d demanded.

“What.. happened to your pants? Sir.”

Jack swallows his bite. “They came off.”

“...Of course,” Rhys closes the question. “Why didn’t I guess?”

“We can’t all be me, kiddo--”

“Thank go-” Rhys coughs and fumbles to finish with, “...Odd. Odd nickname. Could you not... call me that?”

Jack pulls his finger out of his mouth, having sucked it clean. “Well whadda want me to call ya then, hm?” Before Rhys can answer, said fingers come up and reach for Rhys’ name-tag, pulling it closer to Jack. Still buzzed, he leans forward even more to read it. Rhys smells alcohol, but also sugar and a hint of salt.

_Margarita man?_ Rhys wonders, _never judge a book, I guess._

“Rays,” Jack reads.

“It’s Rhys,” says Rhys, pulled forward by Jacks gesture as much as his tag.

“Listen, Rhyz-its,” Jack waves him off, letting go and settling back, “I’m not an unattractive man.”

This conversation took a turn.

“Y’know what they call me?” Jack picks up another rib. “At clubs? Back in college? At fuckinnnn...” Jack’s snapping as he thinks, “Everywhere?!”

“A nudist?” Rhys says, slowly realizing he is, indeed, trapped with a nudist.

Jack sneers, like an asshole. “They call me _Handsome Jack_ … see that? Well, don’t judge it. It’s cold in here. I’m chilly.”

Rhys pauses to recover from the conversational whiplash. “Yeah. You don’t have pants on,” he says, slowly.

“Oh, yeah,” Jack agrees, mouth full, “I needed a new belt. But that’s besides the point. The point is, Rhysie, I could get anyone I wanted on this dick. Any _time_ I wanted, I could have a person there. The power is having people want your dick in the first place. That,” he leans back proudly, “...that is the beauty. Of having power.”

“Power equals laid. Got it.” Rhys says. Jack groans and his hand hits the table.

“Options, Rhysie, _options!_ Choices, alternatives, _possibilities_.” Jack jerks closer, jumping on his own words, “Do you really wanna spend your life being a janitor in my goddamn food chain?”

“Yes. Every day,” Rhys says flatly.

“You’re not here for your winning personality.” Jack rips the last of the rib meat off with his teeth and throws the bone on the floor. He grabs the pitcher and over-fills his glass. “If I could make a list,” he sets the pitcher down, “of all the absolute _babes_ I’ve had riding me cowgirl--”

He cuts himself off at that, no longer chewing. He looks pensive.

Rhys follows his empty stare, confused. “...Jack?”

He snaps up, “Huh?” Jack swallows before Rhys can reply, reaching for the shrimp. “Point is, you can hitch up with anybody when you have enough power.”

“Why do I get the feeling that didn’t go so well for you tonight?” Rhys asks.

Jack pauses mid-bite, eyes directed on Rhys.

“...I’m just noticing a… possible outcome here,” Rhys smiles.

Jack sighs, slumping back into his seat. “Even power has its’ low point. Rhysus, raggy.”

“Just Rhys--”

“And sometimes that low-point is getting _dumped_ by your girlfriend who decides she doesn’t hate your ex-girlfriend anymore,” Jack tosses the water back (Rhys thinks he’s pretending it’s another margarita) and gulps a breath of air. “In fact,” he slams the cup down, “she’s decided your ex isn’t so bad, _really_ not so bad.” Pours another glass. “In fact, your ex is _so_ not-so-bad that your girlfriend's gonna just - _saddle up with her while you’re drinking at her bar_ , right after the breakup.”

Rhys keeps to himself. Jack glances to him and continues, “No, you’re fucking right, I can get free drinks in any country on the fuckin planet or I could take a fucking private jet to get a decent Mai Tai, and it’ll taste even better now.”

“What does that mean?” Rhys asks himself softly.

“‘Just not working out’ my ass,” Jack grumbles on, “Must’ve been such a fuckin’ bore having some goddamn luxury for once.”

Rhys struggles to find common ground and says, “...Power can’t make people love you, I guess.” Is that the moral here? Is that what Jack’s getting at?

Probably not, because when Rhys says that, Jack stops again. He eyes Rhys, chewing the thought as slowly as the fruit he slips between his lips. “...No,” Jack says finally, surprisingly calm, “it can’t do that.”

A quiet moment passes.

“It can’t do that.” Jack repeats.

The buzzing stress in Rhys’ tired skull dies down, the kinetic energy of Jack’s personality slowing to a lull.

If nothing else, that seemed to sober him at last.

Jack looks him over one more time before distracting himself with his utensils. “You’re a good listener.”

“I’m more of a hostage right now than a listener,” Rhys chuckles into his hand.

Jack scoffs, almost affectionate. “You’re a good hostage, then.”

Rhys watches the corner of his lips tug, for the corners of his eyes to crinkle, and understands why he’s called Handsome Jack.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my beeb, tepperz (on tumblr - tepperz.tumblr.com - and here on ao3) for helping with all the edits and lookovers I needed. Love you, <3  
> Find me at yuusaristumblr.com. Blog is 18+ only, please respect that.
> 
> Buy me a ko-fi? ko-fi.com/yuusaris


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